


All I have to do is dream

by buttheyrebrothers



Series: Poetry [20]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cold Oak, Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-06 00:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6729259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttheyrebrothers/pseuds/buttheyrebrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams feel real while we're in them. It's only when we wake up that we realize something was actually strange. [Inception]</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I have to do is dream

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sam and Dean Poetry Challenge on Tumbrl.  
> Prompt: Cold Oak

The little boy lies in the cool darkness of a motel room, the narrow bed crowded with hopes and fears, losses and dreams. Still, there is always room for a brother. A warm, solid body at his back.

_To protect. To hold. To love._

A mismatch of limbs tangled together in resemblance of their lives. Sleep only ever found in those arms. _They are wrapped around me like the branches of a tree_ , he thinks as he slips away with images of leaf-green eyes behind his closed lids.

There is a two-story house, a white patch in the vastness of green that threatens to blind him.   
A dog is chasing its tail, never catching on on the futility of his actions.   
The sun is high in the sky and it burns his skin like fire.   
It’s a beautiful day and the boy is out of his mind with fear, a coppery taste in his mouth.   
There’s a sickly sweet smell in the air and he needs, he needs, he needs –

 _Dean_.

He screams at the top of his lungs, suddenly cold from the lack of heat at his back. Wide eyes run in panic across the expanse of lush grass around the burned building. They stumble upon another patch of white – a nightgown flying in the wind on the blood red clothesline rope.

A shadow flits nearby and the boy follows it, bravely marching on as he trembles with fear. The nightgown smells of ashes and decay as he passes by. He hurries on. 

Behind, there is a tree. It looks like one of those giants he knows from books, going up and up and up. Its branches are thick like airplanes and its bark is almost black.

“It’s an oak tree. It’s a symbol of life.”

There, in front of the tree and hidden by its shadow, stands the brother. The little boy’s legs start running at the sight but they never bridge the distance no matter how much the little boy is pumping them. A bell starts ringing somewhere as the wind picks up. The boy still hasn’t moved. His face is wet with tears.

Everything is wet. The air, his clothes, the ground. His brother with his wide stretched arms and screaming mouth. A storm has hit and the boy stumbles to the ground as lightning strikes his back.  

And finally, the branches close around him once more. But their warmth is gone. There is nothing left but a Cold Oak.


End file.
